Like Mother, Like Daughter
by jessicalange
Summary: It's not right. It's a sin. Not that she's ever read the bible. It's a hellish temptation, this feeling for her mother. But when Fiona touches her, calls her a pet name, runs her fingers through her hair, she finds herself unable to care at all. rated M for incest; not graphic.


"Mother? Is that you?"

Cordelia hates having to ask. Hates having to ask who's in the kitchen when she sits down to have a cup of tea; hates having to ask who's visiting her in her bedroom. They all act as if she's deaf too, unable to hear their footsteps and feel their stares on her face. Their gazes leave burning trails across her skin. They _gawk_ at her like she's some circus act, a freakshow; something in a museum to 'ooh' and 'aah' at and then move on with their lives. When Fiona takes another step forward, it's confirmed without her even speaking; the sound of her Jimmy Choos ring out over the kitchen floor as she moves closer to her daughter and lays a hand on her shoulder. The contact makes her jump, even if she _was_ expecting it.

It sends a tingle down her spine. It's not entirely an unpleasant feeling, but it makes her uncomfortable nonetheless because she's the one feeling it. It's almost _nice_, and just the thought makes her flinch.

Fiona mistakes the flinch for something else; she knows that much, because her mother pulls away as if burned. She almost apologizes. Almost.

"Yeah, darling," her mother says, and there's a brief silence where Cordelia knows she's pulling out a cigarette, lighting it. It's strange to know her mother's every movement even when she's blind, isn't it?

"—it's me."

Fiona's fingers brush against her thigh as she sits down next to her. It's a comforting touch; at least, Cordelia knows it's supposed to be. It's a chaste touch; at least, Cordelia knows it's supposed to be, but she feels a spark of _something_ inside of her nonetheless, something that makes her close her eyes briefly and wish it all away. _God,_ she thinks, _what's wrong with me?_ God doesn't reply. But then, he's never done so before. Why would he now?

It's not like she's ever believed in him, anyway.

She feels her mother's eyes on her face. If she wasn't blind, she'd perhaps be shocked by the tears glimmering in Fiona's eyes, by the purest love one's ever seen on the Supreme written all over her face; but she _is_ blind and so she doesn't notice any of that. "Was there something you wanted, mother?" The moments in the hospital with her mother constantly remind her to be kinder. It's what her mother deserves, doesn't it? The woman had held her hand, refused to leave her side even when the doctors told her that visiting hours were over. Fiona had not even needed to spit in a cup for them; they had granted her permission to stay long after those visiting hours were over, and all that had been necessary was a glare and a threat.

Cordelia's brought out of her thoughts when Fiona's hand returns to her thigh. Chaste still, rubbing idle circles on her leg. It's supposed to be comforting. It is, in a way, but it also makes a heat rise in her cheeks. She prays that Fiona doesn't notice, and her prayers are answered as her mother replies; she can tell that, in the silence in between them, the woman's filled the air with spirals of smoke.

"I just wanted to know how you were feeling, sweetheart." There's a tingle in her abdomen at the pet name. It used to disgust her. Now it does something _different_, and she isn't sure which is worse. "How are your burns? Are your potions working?" There's a kind of distaste in her voice when she says it, but she tries to mask it and that's all Cordelia can expect out of her mother.

"They'll never help with the blindness, mother. You heard the doctors. Nothing anything will do can help." It was the doctors who had informed Fiona of that first. She had heard yelling beyond the door of her hospital room, and then absolute silence. At one point she had been so concerned that she was going to have to get up and check if the doctors were still alive, but then her mother returned.

"But they're helping with the burns, yes," she continues, somewhat distracted by the warmth of her mother's hand, cupping her thigh. She can smell the woman's perfume. It's always been a thick, choking scent, less flowery than it is — _fruity_. Like oranges. She's always hated it, like she's hated Fiona's touch and Fiona's voice for so long, but now, all three things are comforting.

A little voice in the back of her head whispers the truth: that it's comforting, sure, but also something _else_. Cordelia shivers.

"Are you cold?"

No, she's actually very, very warm.

She shakes her head, and Fiona leans closer until she can smell the woman's hair, and her breath, and the smoke. "You should be in bed, 'Delia—" it's sickening, isn't it, how she _shudders_ at the name? "—the doctors ordered bedrest, remember?"

"I remember. But I just. . .I don't want to sleep." That much is the truth. When she wakes up, she can't get to her pills in the nightstand quickly enough; she wakes up nauseous and whimpering from the pain. It's easier just to stay awake and catch the pain before it gets worse.

"Come on," Fiona sighs after a moment, "You have to at least be in bed, alright? You don't have to sleep." Her voice is soothing, making Cordelia's insides tremble, and she doesn't entirely realize she's following her mother from the kitchen and up the stairs; and by then it's too late, they're already in her room. Fiona pushes her gently towards the bed, perches on the edge of it, moves Cordelia's hair out of her face. Her fingers leave tendrils of heat in their wake, and she wonders if it's her mother's magic. trying to coax Cordelia into sleep or just _natural_. But that's the thing, isn't it? It's not natural at all.

There's a long, held silence. If Cordelia hadn't continued to feel her mother's hand moving through her hair, she'd think the woman had left. But she's still there, very quiet. It makes her nervous.

And then, Fiona kisses her.

It's sudden and unexpected, and it's _warm_. It's chaste, and the word _chaste_ is beginning to get on her nerves. Everything Fiona _does_ is _chaste_; and it would not be a bother, but for some reason it _is_. Fiona's lips are soft against the corner of her mouth, and fingers stroke her cheek as she pulls away. "I love you, 'Delia." Cordelia's breath catches in her throat.

"I love you too, mother," she replies after a moment, hesitantly.

Fiona squeezes her thigh and stands from the bed.

"Wait." The word falls from her lips. "Stay?" It's a request; timid, soft, tentative.

Fiona is quiet for a moment. Cordelia thinks she's left, at one point, but then the bed sinks with added weight again and she startles. Her mother's footsteps back to her side had been silent. She realizes after a moment that it's because she removed her heels before climbing into the bed.

Fiona pulls her forward into her side, an arm wrapping around her, her free hand continuing to pet Cordelia's hair. It would have annoyed her, once, how Fiona treated her like some pet, but she relaxes into those same touches now, closing her eyes. "Go to sleep, sweetheart. I'll be here when you wake up."

That's reassuring; it is, because there's not a sliver of deceit in her mother's voice. The scent of her mother's perfume overwhelms the air. Overwhelms _her_. It's always been one spritz on each wrist, her neck, between her breasts — and it's odd, isn't it, how she knows her mother's morning _and_ nightly routines down to the last second?

She tries not to focus on the closeness of her mother and instead on sleeping.

It doesn't work.

But she closes her eyes and pretends to. She pretends to be enveloped in an empty, peaceful sort of sleep; she relaxes her features, and she uses what her mother's inadvertently taught her. Manipulation skills. Tactics to deceive her mother into believing something that isn't really true. That's one of her mother's many own skills, isn't it? And despite what her mother believes, Cordelia is like Fiona. A little too much like Fiona.

She can feel Fiona lean over her, kiss her cheek, and then lower, on her mouth. She has to fight the instinctive feeling to pull away.

She has to fight the instinctive feeling to lean forward and envelop herself in the intimate touch her mother has to offer. It isn't _chaste_ this time; neither is her mother's hand on her leg. The kiss is quick, and soft, and affectionate; but it has a feeling of something else. The same something else that makes her head spin when she's around her mother lately, what ties her stomach in knots when Fiona touches her. The same something she's sure reflects in her marbled eyes when she hears her mother call her _darling_ or _sweetheart_. A kind of heat.

_Arousal_, that little voice whispers in her voice snidely. She wants to cry.

But before she can even think of giving in to the urge to wrap her arms around her mother and pull her closer yet, her mother moves away again and tugs Cordelia into her arms as she settles into the warmth of the bed.

Yes, she thinks; never has the phrase 'like mother like daughter' ever been so true up until this point.


End file.
